


Jekyll & Hyde

by Maaiika



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: And So is Sherlock, Dark, M/M, Mental Instability, Sad, Sheriarty - Freeform, it's not non-con but kinda close, kinda sick, moriarty is broken, much sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-15 18:22:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9250046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maaiika/pseuds/Maaiika
Summary: There isn’t a more fragile thing than relationships. Sherlock had broken Jim. Because he had been utterly bored. Now the detective has to pay.





	1. Act 1

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Jekyll & Hyde](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/254603) by Angel Summer Black (Me). 



> I wrote this thing back in 2014 in German. Now my lovely girlfriend CannibaLilly translated it to English so you folks can read it too. Have fun!

There had been a time when they would have called whatever it was they were having _happy_. _Satisfying. Fulfilling._

A sick relationship full of mutual dependency, boisterous hatred and destructive love.

As similar as they were, as different were the roads they had ended up taking.

There had been a time when fairy tales had ended with a cheerful “And they lived happily ever after.”

But don’t forget the evil queen, dancing over a coal fire in her iron slippers, until she falls to the ground, screaming miserably, dying.

 

***

A dull pain was pounding against his forehead. He could feel the numbness of his limbs and the acute pain in his left leg. Fracture of patella.

Oh yes, he had always expressed his _affection_ like this.

“Ugh...” A low growl out of a dry throat. He was feeling sick, his brain kept detecting a feeling of rotation and constant motion despite the fact that he was sitting still and stiff on the ground. Like a chained animal.

He was feeling nauseous, but there was nothing left in his stomach he could possibly have thrown up.

Dimly he noticed footsteps and every time the sole of a shoe connected with the cold ground the sound smashed into his temples.

 

“Sherlock.” His voice was disgustingly smooth, like velvet. Ha, he really could have made it big as an actor.

“Wake uuup.”

 

But his blue eyes remained tightly closed.

 

“Well, well, well... you’re not gonna sleep away the day, are you?”

A cold hand patted Sherlock’s cheek. Fingers, the lines of which he had carefully enchased in his memory, were caressing his lips. First the soft tips then the fingernails that left white lines where they pushed away the blood.

 

“Oh, Sherlock... how thrilling you are when you’re asleep. Did you dream of something nice?”

The addressed man wasn’t able to reply. He opened his mouth but only a brief sound of pain, a weak groan, escaped.

“So weak, so broken,” buzzed the melodic voice. Shortly after, Sherlock felt those well-known lips on his. They opened up and he copied the motion. It was not the first time this happened. Also he knew what would follow this make-believe tenderness.

 

If he’d caught him on a good day that is.

 

His eyes were still closed, but he knew that the room was empty save for him and his _warder_. No-one else could hear the smacking of their mouths, moving against each other, sometimes hungrily, sometimes with caution.

Sherlock didn’t know an awful lot about his current whereabouts, but he constantly tried to keep the facts he had learned and verified in mind.

He was in Europe, very probably Italy, somewhere in Tuscany, most likely Siena. If he had correctly assessed the sounds of the construction works he was being kept about 2.8 miles from the big dome. In an old building – presumably – fourth or fifth floor.

The room was much too big for a prison cell, it had a bed and a basin, it was connected to only one other room, and it had a window that was locked with a safety lock.

 

And the undeniable fact that he knew his kidnapper inside out. Much too his regret.

 

“Oh, Sherlock...” butterfly kisses on his cheek, neck, collarbone. “With every day I like you better. Why is that?” The cool fingers opened one button of his shirt after the next. They furnished him with new clothes on a daily basis. Sometimes he was supposed to wear the same shirt for four days on end so it would take on his scent. He didn’t want to know what was being done with it afterwards.

He didn’t much care about his appearance by now, no, he would have stopped caring about it much early given the circumstances. But it didn’t matter anymore if he was sitting here with matted hair and sticky skin or if a suit and tie where decorating his chest. He remained pent-up.

 

He felt how the man’s hands were running erratically over his chest. They slid over his ribs and caressed the skin above his navel, back and forth. Up and down, the fingernails drew little circles on his skin.

 

“Jim...,” he forced the words out. It was a prompting “Get on with it,” over time he’d reached the agreement with himself that he’d like to get this over with as quickly as possible.

It was a shame, at least in a way. He had used to enjoy those activities with Jim. A lot. And if he had been tied down, it had been with his permission.

It was hard to believe how passionate a man James Moriarty was.

Passionate in every way. While pursuing his hobbies, while torturing subordinates, while exploring little alleys in little cities in little countries. While waging war, no matter if cold or real and gory.

 

But this wasn’t any better than a sick, perverted kind of torture porn.

“Okay,” he heard his voice giving in and then the rustling of his clothes, that belonged to him like a second skin, followed.

Soon he felt _him_ at his mouth.

 

Obediently, he opened his lips and closed them around the warm member. As a result, he heard Moriarty’s soft, droning voice.

He still refused to open his eyes and let his jaw sink further down. “Oh Sherlock... you’re frighteningly gentle today.”

 

He heard Jim’s suit moving rhythmically and taste the salty, viscous fluid – the first evidence of his sick lust. In his time there, Sherlock had started counting approximately how long it took Jim to reach his climax. He strictly avoided the phrase “make him come,” since he didn’t actively do much to help the process along. Jim used his mouth like he used everything else, to get off on it. Sherlock was quietly counting to distract himself from the upcoming nausea.

 

14... 15... 16...

 

The average time it took varied greatly. Just like when they had been together, Sherlock could assess Jim’s mood with every fibre of his body. He could detect the different nuances in Jim’s voice, he felt when Jim was rampant and when he held back, because he wanted to savour the moment.

Often he took his frustration, his anger, his uncontrollable rage, out on Sherlock.

And sometimes...

 

Sherlock was jerked out of his thoughts, he felt Jim’s moving foreskin and his hands that were surely placed on Sherlock’s black hair.

 

40... 41... 42...

 

Still he kept his eyes shut, he didn’t want to give the bastard this triumph. But just as he started expecting to taste the come in his mouth, Moriarty paused.

 

“No,” he drew out a moan. “No... not... to-... today.” He withdrew from his mouth but not without leaving a nasty aftertaste. This unforeseen gesture left the detective opening his eyes, puzzled. He would have jerked back (hadn’t there been the chains), because Jim’s face was much closer than he had expected. He had neither heard nor smelled his breath, which surprised him.

 

He looked the monster-made-man straight into his eyes, his pupils were dilated. His cheeks were flushed. Then Jim slid his thumb over Sherlock’s moist lips, brushing away some saliva. And before he spoke his next words Sherlock instinctively knew something was different.

 

“Sorry,” the criminal mumbled, “I couldn’t control myself.” He leaned in until his mouth was close to Sherlock’s ear, keeping his balance by placing a hand on Sherlock’s crotch. “I’ll make it up to you.” Startlingly tender he kissed his cheek and then, with hypocritical coyness, his now swollen lips. Usually, Jim would never have stooped to kiss him after Sherlock had had him in his mouth, but something was getting the better of the dark haired man.

After all this time, Sherlock was unable to find a satisfying diagnosis. It seemed to be something between a borderline personality disorder, schizophrenia, minor signs that pointed at paranoia and maybe a posttraumatic stress disorder due to their intense break-up.

And maybe it was all play-pretend after all. He didn’t know and that’s what made his stomach ache.

Whatever it was, it caused Jim, at least occasionally, to change his mood up to seven times in five minutes.

All this time, however, he remained the bloody bastard that took pleasure in Sherlock’s pain.

“I’m gonna untie you,” the devil’s vicious lips spoke. “You won’t run away, will you?” He caressed his left leg and the smashed kneecap, causing Sherlock to wince in pain.

“Ha.” Moriarty let out a short laugh. Cold. Inanimated.

 

There had been a time when things had been different. Different between them. By now it felt to Sherlock like a different universe. So far away and so unrealistic that Jim’s touches used to be full of love, desire and longing.

Ohohoh, he did turn into a broken romantic in here.

 

“Come,” Jim whispered after having unlocked and untangled the chains. “Get up. You can lean on me.” Sherlock smiled cheerlessly. In those short, both precious and absurd, moments Jim’s old side surfaced. A small part of him, the one that didn’t want to slowly skin Sherlock, but kiss him.

That didn’t want to shoot him but hold him.

That didn’t want to burn him but melt him with his heat.

And really, Moriarty got down to help Sherlock up. Sherlock’s blue eyes were flickering through the room to find a potential change, but everything was as usual.

Jim placed Sherlock’s left arm on his own left shoulder and helped relieving Sherlock’s injured leg.

 

“Jim,” Sherlock groaned in pain. The narcotics and painkillers slowly wore off. He killed the thought about what would happen if they continued to flood his empty body with chemicals.

He was directed onto the bed by the smaller man. Once Sherlock had asked why he kept him chained up on the floor, but this question Jim had answered with bruised limbs. Not Jim personally, but Moran, his darn lapdog.

For a while, Sherlock had theorized that Jim couldn’t hit him, but within two and a half seconds he had discarded this thesis as too sentimental and irrational. Jim simply seemed to get immense satisfaction out of watching.

The mattress Sherlock was sitting on was hard. Upright, he leaned against the wall for support. His whole body groaned when he moved. Moriarty had zipped up his trousers a while ago, now he was standing in front of Sherlock und pushed his legs apart. While doing that he made sure to only touch Sherlock’s left leg, not the knee. This didn’t exactly assuage the pain but the detective nevertheless took as a kind gesture from Jim’s old personality.

He placed his right shoe directly between his open legs. Jim looked down at him, his expression that of a tense wolf about to attack his prey.

 

“Jim, please,” he croaked. “The pain...” He tried moving his left leg to underline his situation.

“Ohhh, Sherlock...” He pressed the polished tip of his shoe against Sherlock’s crotch. “The pain is exactly what makes it interesting.”

 

Ha, there was no use in appealing to Jim’s _normal_ side. Resigned, Sherlock bowed his head. “At least make it quick.”

“How dare you?!” Jim hissed and brought his foot down harder, making the lying man cry out in pain. As soon as the low-pitched bassoon of his voice had died down Jim winced and dropped (in his best suit!) on his knees before Sherlock.

 

“Sherlock!” his voice was high-pitched, “Sherlock, forgive me.” He crawled towards him on all fours and hugged him gently. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled against his neck, letting one hand tenderly caress his crotch.

 

The younger one exhaled. “It’s... okay.” He dared raising his hand to briefly stroke Jim’s smooth hair.

“No... no, it’s not okay.” Jim looked at him for a second then kissed his cheek. “It’s not okay at all.”

He glanced down and with skilful fingers opened Sherlock’s trousers. Sherlock – to no-one’s real surprise – had no erection yet. These quick and abrupt changes in Moriarty’s personality were, even for him, hard to calculate.

Moriarty already moved his fingers into Sherlock’s trousers and pulled it down, over his legs and feet. He paid special attention to not hurting his left knee.

Playfully he tapped the fingers of his right hand over Sherlock’s still covered length.

“Hand or mouth?” Jim asked, sounding like someone keeping both his hands behind his back, hiding a nice surprise in one of them. Sherlock smiled, he actually meant to answer when a sudden coughing fit smashed into him and made him shake. His body desperately needed some rest.

Jim’s eyebrows drew together. “You’d prefer medicine, eh?” he asked and Sherlock knew as a matter of principle that he had to deny. But it didn’t come that far. Jim got up without saying another word, he smoothed the fabric of his suit with his hands and left.

He did not lock the door. Another humiliation, since he knew perfectly well that Sherlock was physically unable to escape. And soon, he wouldn’t be able to escape mentally either.


	2. Act 2

Fifteen minutes passed before Jim returned. Sherlock’s lips curled into a smile. “You combed your hair.” The shamefully accurate deduction made the criminal stop short. Quickly however, he recovered and continued his self confident stride towards his prisoner.

“Yes. They... don’t need to know what’s going on in here.” He put his souvenirs down on the small table. Sherlock let out a dry laugh. “As if they haven’t figured that out already. I’ve told you before...” His head tipped almost longingly towards the window. “Get thicker employees.”

Now Jim smiled, too. “Yes... but then again, when did I ever listen to you?” For a moment he turned his back on Sherlock and put a bottle of water next to the bed for Sherlock to reach.

“True,” the detective replied. Even in this state he wanted to, and had to, have the last word. That too had earned him broken bones before.

 

He noticed how Moriarty toyed with a small pill in his hands. As soon as he saw the medicine, the agony in his left leg made itself felt again. He cursed his human reflexes. Jim leaned in over him, both hands against the wall on either side of Sherlock’s head, the pill jammed between Jim’s lips. He bent further down until Sherlock could accept the pill with his own mouth. He swallowed it dry but reached for the bottle nevertheless. It was that moment that Moriarty sat down, bringing his whole weight down on Sherlock’s pelvis, leaving Sherlock even less room to move than he’d had before. Fully unable to move, he had Sherlock pinned beneath him – oh, good god in heaven – it almost drove Jim crazy.

 

Moriarty reached for the bottle himself. Sherlock shot him a lopsided grin in response. “Want to check for me if it’s poisoned? How very sweet of you.”

Monotonously, Jim nodded while opening the bottle, his eyes widened approvingly. “Clever, very clever. You little, clever detective.” He raised the plain bottle and took two gulps of the water. Sherlock’s eyes pretended to be glued to his bobbing Adam’s apple, but the truth was that they were pinpointing the vulnerable carotid artery beneath Jim’s skin.

The sitting man did not bother to wipe away the remaining drops of water and instead took another sip before leaning down to Sherlock once more.

Sherlock opened his mouth and drank the devil’s tainted water.

It was a sick game. And it was so much more.

 

“Jim?”

“Uhu?”

 

Sherlock thought it through once more. But the time had come.

Four months.

That was how long he had given them.

 

By now eight and a half had passed.

 

Sherlock took a deep breath. Jim’s scent was so familiar to him even though he really despised his hair gel and aftershave.

 

“Jim...” Powerlessly he moved his hand over Jim’s shoulder. “It’s over.”

 

Moriarty blinked precisely two times. The first time was fast and hectic, the second time slowly and careful. Almost as if Sherlock’s decision had come with the second blink. But before he so much as put his jacket down, he brought his head down to kiss Sherlock’s lips so desperately, as if they were the last remaining oxygen on earth. Sherlock took this as gratitude and relief and held tightly onto the back of Jim’s neck, digging his fingernails into the skin. He felt and smelled his breath and for the first time in a very long time it didn’t disgust him.

 

Sherlock Holmes pulled James Moriarty closer.

 

It was too late.

 

Now it was too late.

 

***

_Sherlock, are you sure you want to do this?_

_I have to, John._

_You’re going to die._

_I know, Mycroft._

_What can I do for you?_

_Nothing, Molly._

_Turning yourself over to him? That’s sick!_

_I know, but it has to be done, Gavin._

_... Greg._

_But what will happen to-_

_Don’t get sentimental, Mrs Hudson._

_“Listen to me: Four months. It will be too late after that. I know him. He knows me. He’s going to lock me up, I’m sure of that. Europe or South America. Probably Europe. On the Mediterranean. And he’ll make sure I can’t escape. I can’t take precautions. He’d notice transmitters of any kind. He is... like me._

_And he needs to be stopped. It’s my fault he’s turned out this way. And every following death will be my fault.”_

_“But... You never stick your neck out for other people!” John’s voice. Desperate. “Why... why would you...?”_

_“Sacrifice myself now? Tsk. Well. Options are no different than theses and assumptions, John. Once you eliminate all the others, whatever remains must be the right one.”_

 

***

 

Yes, what he did was the only right option.

With levity, he had broken Jim. Hurt him. Destroyed him.

Because he had been bored.

Because Jim had bored him.

Because love had bored him.

 

And Jim, this idiot, hadn’t been able to help himself and continued to love Sherlock. Deep down, hidden in his soul which Sherlock Holmes wanted to see lying on the ground, cut into pieces.

 

And Sherlock had burdened himself with the responsibility of ending this hellish game.

 

Now he understood what this indescribably strange feeling he had felt before. He had been witness to his first and final misgiving.

 

While Sherlock’s brief escape into his mind, Jim got rid of his own clothes. First the jacket, then the vest. He loosened the tie first with two fingers and then stripped it off with one skilful motion. Finally the only thing left was the shirt in which he was sitting on him and which he opened, slowly, luxuriously, button after button.

With every new button he pressed his pelvis against Sherlock’s. The Irishman’s light skin appeared beneath the fabric, together with the birth mark that sat on the upper left part of his chest.

 

Making a strenuous effort Sherlock lifted his left arm to caress Jim’s chest like he used to do. It felt so familiar and yet so warped, strange. His hand continued wandering, he knew he had the permission and ran his fingers over Jim’s belly. He got to see the sun so rarely. Jim’s skin was pale, but not nearly as pale and haggard as his own.

_Aren’t we two sick figures..._

His fingers slid playfully over the dark hair below the navel of the sitting man. It tickled his fingertips and Jim’s calm eyes told him he had pacified his twisted side a little.

 

He opened Jim’s trousers. He rose a little so the fabric could be stripped off his legs. Now the two of them were only sitting there in their underwear.

 

“Did you lock the door?”

“Uh-uh. Made someone lock it.” Nonchalant, he kissed his way from Sherlock’s chest to his belly. Here and there, his skin was torn and scratched. Blue and yellow-ish bruises, where Jim’s anger had exploded, were well visible there. That was why his upper body wasn’t much of a sight to see, still Jim traced every single injury lovingly with his tongue as if that could undo them.

Sherlock, or more accurately, his body wasn’t used to being treated gently anymore. Every touch, every wet trail Jim drew burned like fire.

Jim moved up higher and nuzzled Sherlock’s neck. “Here, this spot, was where I first kissed you,” he whispered and pushed his lips against Sherlock’s warm skin. He smiled in response. “Yes… I didn’t want you to kiss my lips.”

“Uh-uh. It wasn’t my fault they were covered with blood.”

“ _La sangre fría_ … that was an interesting case.”

 

A case he had solved together with Jim. His excited reaction told Sherlock that hat he remembered it as well.

“Yes, brilliant…” He kissed him just shortly above his right ear and Sherlock closed his eyes. He focused on Jim’s hands and lips and soon found himself trapped in a strange swirl of sensation. He couldn’t tell why but Jim’s touches blended together to a single symphony of arousal and sensuality. He felt confused, a little woozy. Was this his body giving up…?

 

“No, Sherlock,” his partner’s voice whispered softly. “No, it’s not.”

“What… else could… it be?” he mumbled, struggling to pull his trembling lips apart. But Jim’s answer wasn’t verbal, instead he kissed a trail along Sherlock’s length. Sherlock hadn’t even noticed how he had freed him. He drew out a long, soft sigh, but it was enough for Jim to continue.

 

Sherlock moaned when he felt Jim’s hard tongue pressing against him and playing with him. Oh yes, that part he had always truly enjoyed. That Jim allowed him to feel this pleasure once more was either a very good or very bad sign.

 

When Jim straightened up for a moment to look at Sherlock’s flushed face, he edged the sight before him deeply into his mind. His lips were slightly parted, his gaze slightly fogged. He placed his hand on Sherlock’s gently throbbing crotch. Oh dear, he wanted him so bad!

 

“Sherlock,” he whispered softly, desperate, endlessly desperate, but Sherlock couldn’t hear him.

 

The next thing the detective was aware of was that Jim gently pushed his legs apart. A cushion was lying under his tailbone so he was lying slightly elevated. Jim must have placed it there.

Sherlock would have smiled had he been able to. Ironically, he couldn’t recall a single time the older man had treated him with such care. There had been days Sherlock hadn’t moan in pleasure but in pain.

But today…

 

Cool fingers slowly moved down his inner thigh, looking for a more sensitive spot. He could feel how Jim caressed his hard length with his free hand, using some liquid anticipation as lube. Sherlock groaned something, anything, but it registered with Jim as consent and approval.

 

He continued pumping while his finger caressed Sherlock’s entrance in lazy circles. The lying man melted into the heat and pleasure. All the more he regretted the fact that his mind was drifting further and further away. He hoped his body was sending Jim enough positive responses and signal, because Sherlock himself could hardly utter a word.

 

_What… what kind of medicine did you give me, Jim?_

 

His excitement grew with every movement and both men knew it would be very simple to send him over the edge with nothing more but these touches. But both men knew just as well that they didn’t want it to end like this. So when he finally felt Jim’s hard member where his finger had been a moment before, Sherlock couldn’t help but smile. He tipped his head back, wanting to submit to the pleasure but Jim’s voice stopped him. “Look at me, Sherlock.”

He forced himself to raise his head. His blue eyes needed a moment until they managed to bring Jim’s face into focus, but the expression in the dark mirrors of his soul made him look indescribably sad. And he didn’t know the reason. He would never learn it.

Jim forced him to continue looking at him while he entered him with small pushes. This wasn’t the first time Sherlock saw this but the fascination still lingered. Jim’s closed eyes, his slightly raised eyebrows, the lips he kept pressed together to lock away any hint of a moan. But when he had entered Sherlock as far as he could, a brief but powerful moan escaped his lips anyway.

Sherlock’s body didn’t need much time to get used to Jim, yet the dark haired man allowed him to take his time. All this terrified Sherlock, but he was too aroused and enthralled by his former lover so he pushed this ominous feeling away with a gasp. The gasping grew louder as Jim started rhythmically moving inside of him, placing his hands on Sherlock’s chest for support and in case he’d need to conduct Sherlock. But he didn’t need to. Sherlock’s body had never been so in tune with his own, so they were able to move with each other effortlessly.

And he had destroyed Sherlock’s soul for the past eight month and put it back together as he pleased. It didn’t resist him anymore.

 

The irregular moans of the two men filled the room and both speed and pitched were telltale signs that neither of them would last much longer.

Jim was the first to come. Much too long he had longed for Sherlock’s tightness, so many times he had craved to touch this sinful body. Sherlock arching his back and convulsing told him that he had come just seconds after him.

Jim could feel his strength abandoning him. Not because of their feverish dance but because of the _medicine_ , the one he had swallowed fifteen minutes before Sherlock. Also he realized how all opinions and thoughts left his head, how slowly everything lost its meaning behind a thick veil of bliss and powerlessness.

He retreated from Sherlock and lay down next to him with a sigh. He had been able to do it one more time. And it had been so fulfilling.

Jim glanced out of the window with a mix of fatigue and exhaustion. Next to him, Sherlock was breathing shallowly.

 

“Sherlock,” he whispered weakly. “Sherlock, it’s raining.” He tried to bring the rain drops on the window pane into focus but it just didn’t want to work. “Can you see it?” His voice was high pitched, his body trembling. His eyes were crying.

 

He caressed Sherlock’s head. In a couple of hours he would be cold, just as his own. He bent over him one last time and kissed his closed mouth.

 

“It’s raining, Sherlock. It’s pouring.”

 

Then his muscles relaxed.

 

***

 

Three hours later two lifeless men were found.

 

James Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes.

 

Two men who had loved each other.

 

Two men for whom there was no _And they lived happily ever after_.

 

~~~The End~~~


End file.
